


want me down to the marrow

by auberigine



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Character Study, F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:40:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29205273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberigine/pseuds/auberigine
Summary: "Come with me," Adora says, and she's looking at her like she holds the whole world in her hands. "I can't do this without you."Catra looks down at her hand, hovering hers over it. There were two thoughts running through her mind, equally as terrifying:What if none of this was real?And then, even worse,what if it was?—or catra tries to find a universe where adora stays.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 175





	want me down to the marrow

**Author's Note:**

> otherwise known as catra's hot girl summer: the fic
> 
> i decided to watch promise, remember, and corridors all in one go and really wanted to write something where all the different realities are things that could have actually happened in canon
> 
> title comes from helene cixous' love of the wolf. thank you again to whitney for reading this over and trying to make sense of my insanity

> “I want to meet you in every place I ever loved. Listen to me. I am your echo. I would rather break the world than lose you.”
> 
> — _Amal El-Mohtar, This Is How You Lose The Time War_

_i._

Catra has spent her whole life building herself an armor of fearlessness.

She’s good at it — it’s the one thing, actually it is the _only_ thing, that makes the others regard her with a kind of respect; they don’t need to know that behind her veneer of fury there is a beating heart that dreads, that fears, that finds horrors — the armor is worn but it is hers. It never failed her before.

And then — and then everything goes wrong, Adora _leaves_ — she gets her promotion, she gets her respect, she gets everything she’s wished for. And there’s no need for that armor, is there? Catra has no need for that appearance for one simple reason: there is nothing to fear.

Adora is gone and Catra takes Shadow Weaver down with her bare hands, gloating as she does. Everyone who has ever stood in her way, who has ever doubted her and regarded her with the same condescension one gives to a small toddler who doesn’t know any better — they’re _gone_.

Catra gets their admiration and their respect that they had so carelessly cast aside, that they hadn’t earned.

There’s a saying in the Horde: Strength is meaningless, it's the respect you need to possess. 

It doesn’t matter how strong you are, or how talented or even how many fucking weapons you might be able to slip pass the Force Captains without their notice. Without respect, without veneration, you are nothing. 

You’re setting yourself for disaster, for kicks and punches and the oh-so-accidental blast from a stun baton.

Respect was currency. Catra learned this young; Adora had been stared at for being the favorite, the front runner; the stares had gone away eventually, when the other cadets caught sight of Catra’s claws and the way she clung to Adora’s side like a second skin. Though, that wasn't respect, but fear.

(Maybe they’re one and the same, she thinks: respect and fear.)

But Catra, who has always been everything that Adora is not, doesn’t have respect; maybe she never did. Maybe, everyone was just biding their time until _she_ did something like this.

Catra does not have strength or protection or any fucking microcosm of safety.

She has nothing. She has always had nothing, nothing but her claws and teeth and anger to keep her going. Everything that has ever been given to her was a loan, a debt, that would eventually be repaid in pain, in suffocation, in chains.

It was never _hers_.

And nothing has really changed. That’s all she can think about as she limps through the halls, the tendrils of magic still sweeping and convulsing over her body.

(That’s all she can allow herself to think about. She can’t think about anything else — certainly not _them_ — all that matters is this. She needs to crush her once and for all, like she has done to her for all of Catra’s meaningless life.

If she can’t, then what else is there? She thinks of that Princess, and her hand clasped into _hers_ as Catra was lifted off the ground, only stopping when it was too much for her _._

If she can’t do this, if she can’t end this then — God, what else is there?)

She may have nothing, she may be nothing — this isn’t something she will ever forget, she is _nothing_ and all this work hasn’t meant a damn thing because she will _always_ be nothing — but, Catra thinks, she has this.

The portal has been this looming figure in her life for too long; it’s ruined everything she's worked so hard to build — it’s fitting that it’s the key to ending this, the key to getting everything she should have wanted from day one.

 _We’ll all lose if Hordak opens his portal machine_ , Adora had said. Catra claws out the pang that follows that thought, marching to the throne room with purpose, with shaking hands and a sickness in her chest.

 _Good_ , she thinks. At least this way, it will be final. She can finish this.

If she has to be defined by this, by this spiral of loss and all this goddamn nothing, then let it end like this. Let her disappoint them both one last time; let her _ruin_ them one last time. That's all she's good for anyway.

She grips the lever with wide eyes, sinking her claws in it.

She won't allow herself to stand like this any longer. She will tear her down piece-by-piece. She will tear into herself until there is nothing left, she will destroy this place until there is nothing but the dust beneath their feet.

 _She will tear it all down_ , she thinks.

The lever falls with a clang as she pushes it forward, and Catra does what she’s always wished for: She remakes the world.

━━━━━

Catra’s ears twitch as she hears the familiar sound of metal against metal, the sound of a grappling hook clinging to the railing of the rooftop as someone climbs up.

The rest of the Forge is quiet — as quiet as the Fright Zone can be; the skiffs still screech and churn as they head for the baying area near the Commissary.

She’s not sure why she still comes up here, after everything. It’s not like it still means what it used to, at least to her. She’s starting to think it never meant what it was supposed to for Adora either.

Her heart leaps in her throat, like a lost animal leaps to a predator, and she sinks her fangs in it to quell it. Whatever she’s here for, it’s not the same as it used to be. It can’t be.

She tries to keep her voice steady, despite the fact that they haven't seen each other in _weeks_. “Aren’t you a little far from Bright Moon?” She asks, turning towards her.

“Catra,” Adora says, her voice just on the edge of breathlessness. The grappling hook is curled in one hand, and she can make out the hilt of that sword on her back. “I knew I’d find you here.”

She narrows her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” She says, setting the grappling hook on the ground. It’s not the same one she used to use, and the glint of it sets her teeth on edge.

“You wanted to talk to me,” She repeats. Adora nods and she rolls her eyes, because _really_? “So, you snuck back into some place that wants you dead for, what, a conversation?”

Adora blinks at that. “They don’t want me dead.”

“Yeah, I don't think Shadow Weaver is going to care about the semantics,” She bites out. She should know, she’s the only one who’s been on the receiving end of Shadow Weaver’s little interrogations. She sure as hell doesn't care _how_ Adora gets back here. “Did you even think what would happen if you came back here and they found out about your little Princess alter ego?”

Adora tilts her head, her eyes flitting over her like she’s trying to figure something out. “Didn’t you have to report back on what happened in Thaymor?”

“Yeah,” She shrugs. “So?”

Adora looks down at the ground, at the claw marks that litter the metal from all the times they’ve fought and danced up here, and then back at her. “They don’t know I’m She-Ra,” She says, smirking. 

It’s not a question but Catra can hear the inkling of one. _Why don’t they know?_ “What, did you think I was just going to tell her?”

Adora shrugs, her fingers going to pull at her belt. “I don’t know, maybe? I mean, we’re not —” She stops herself. Catra narrows her eyes, her claws going to skim the slits in her bodysuit to stifle down her instinct to move closer to her.

“Uh, thanks, I guess,” Adora says, her smile blinding and, again, Catra is utterly thrown by how undone she’s become since Thaymor. “For keeping my secret.”

“Please, it’s barely a secret,” Catra scoffs. “You wouldn’t know subtlety if it came out of your ass.”

“Still,” She says smugly. “You could’ve told them.” She inches towards her, curling her hands around the railing inches away from hers. Catra’s heart crushes itself in her throat again, and she sinks her teeth back in.

 _Stop_ , Catra tells herself. _She’s not here for you. She left._

“And tell people you randomly turned into some weird, glowing Princess?” _We made a promise,_ she thinks. _I remember it, even if you don’t._ “Cause that would go over well.”

Even as the words fall from her lips, she knows the answer. _Maybe if_ _you had told her,_ Catra thinks, full of bitterness, full of fire, _She_ _might have left you alone._ No more solitary, no more threats. 

She knows the thought is a hollow one. Every time Catra has given her what she wanted, every time she _gave up_ , that never stopped anything. All of that never happened because of what she did — it was because she was _Catra_. There was something inherent, instinctual, in that, like something that needed to be crushed.

Besides, she never could have done that to Adora. Even after everything.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, it wasn’t _random_ ,” Her hand goes to grasp the hilt of her sword, taking it off her back and running her fingers over a bright blue stone, “I was chosen, I think.”

“Great,” She drawls, raking her claws against the railing, watching as Adora stares, her bottom lip getting tugged between her teeth. “Any more Princess bullshit I should know about?”

Her cheeks hollow out and Catra sinks her fangs into the inside of her cheek at the way Adora’s nose wrinkles, her brows pinching together in concentration in that way it always does, when she’s trying to focus on something.

“I ruined my bed on my first night in Bright Moon,” She says, almost abruptly. “Everything was so _soft_. I was scared it was going to, like, eat me alive.”

“Oh, come on, Adora,” She snorts. “Don't tell me you're scared of a bunch of pillows.”

“Yeah,” She says, “They're _terrifying_ pillows. I couldn't move, it was like quicksand. Really bright quicksand. Also,” She says, skimming her fingers over the railing. “Did you know they put crystals in their rooms?”

“Crystals?”

“Crystals!” She says, almost scandalized. “They were everywhere! There’s a fountain there too for some reason. Like, not even for showering, it's just _there_.”

She laughs, her tail going to twine around Adora’s wrist at the grin she gives her in response. She feels lighter than she has in days, like the dull throb she’s felt ever since Thaymor, since Shadow Weaver wrapped her in her tendrils and tried to force her to tell her what she knows barely exists at all. 

She’s always wanted to blind herself towards anything that wasn’t made up of her and Adora, clinging to each other like they were the last breath of air. She never could — that’s never what she was to her, and for years she was fine with that because at least she _had_ her, but she doesn’t even have that anymore — and now she never can.

Her claws dig into the metal of the railing again, and she bites down the hiss that springs up at the pain. “Adora,” She says, forcing the tenderness out of her like bile, because she’s here, but she left, _she left you here with no fucking hesitation_ , “What are you doing here?”

Adora’s hand wring together, before she brings them down to tap at something on her belt, a gold, ridged pin. “I came back,” She says, and for some reason she sounds nervous. “I came back for you.”

“What?”

“Look, we have to go,” She says. “It’ll be harder to leave once the moons rise but —“

She barely even registers that, her mind still clinging onto the _I came back_. “What do you mean you came back for me?” Catra asks.

Adora turns and looks at her, reaching for her hand before curling her fingers around her wrist, just like she did in Thaymor. Something hot and pulsing breaks in her chest at the memory. “I’m here to get you out.”

She debates taking off her mask and chucking it straight at Adora’s head. “Get me _out_?”

“I told you, we don’t really have a lot of time —”

“Don’t know if you’ve forgotten but I’m not exactly a prisoner here,” Catra cuts off. “Neither of us were.”

Adora’s hand goes to curl around the hilt of her sword again. “Catra,” She says and she’s always hated when Adora said her name like that. Patronizing and magisterial, like she _knew_ better. “You were there, at Thaymor. You know what the Horde is doing.”

She scoffs. “So?" She says, and Adora's head shakes in disbelief, her eyes boring into her. "It's been years and the twelve little dancing princesses," — _Oh, come on, there aren't even twelve of them —_ "Have done nothing but just sit around. What do you expect _me_ to do about it?”

“I don’t know, something!” She says, thrusting her sword into the ground, almost in frustration. She gives her an apologetic smile when Catra jumps at the sound of it reverberating across the rooftop. “You can’t just do _nothing_. That isn’t you.”

“Since when do you care?” Catra asks. “Last time I checked, you wanted to get to the top just like the rest of us.”

“I didn’t know,” She says. “If I had known, I never would’ve —”

Catra doesn’t know whether she wants to laugh or tear up the railing. All these years, and she didn’t fucking _notice_? “What do you mean, you didn’t know? What did you think they were doing to us all these years?” _What did you think she was doing to me all these years?_

“I don’t know,” Adora shrugs, which isn’t even an answer. “I thought — that’s just how it always was.”

She stares at her, at the shining hilt of her sword, at those blue-gray eyes who are just pleading for her to come with her, looking at her as though _she’s_ the one who’s turning her back on everything they had promised to each other.

 _That’s just how it always was_ , she said. That’s just how it was — the Horde hurts people, it takes them in and spits them out as a walking corpse — that’s just how it _was_ , and the thing that changed everything for her wasn’t Catra, it was _never_ Catra, it was a bunch of people she had just met who had their home destroyed.

(It was _never_ her. Adora had been by her side for years and it wasn’t her that had her looking around in horror.

What had been so important about those people that Adora was willing to stand by and watch her get hurt but couldn’t with them?)

She scoffs. She takes her claws off from the railing, and Adora winces at the screech that follows it. She turns on her heel, preparing to jump on the landing below when there’s a light tug on her wrist.

“Catra,” She says, her fingers gliding from her wrist to her hand. “Come on, I know you’re not a bad person. You don’t sit around while people get hurt,” Catra doesn’t have the heart to correct her with _No, that was just with you_ , “You don’t belong with the Horde.”

She scoffs again, but doesn’t tug her hand away. She’s been so desperate for any part of Adora these last few weeks that she couldn’t pull away even if she wanted to. “What do you want me to do? Join your dumb Rebellion?” Catra asks, incredulous.

It’s not like she can just _leave_. She never could leave before, no matter much she wanted to, no matter how much she told herself that _this_ time she would. She would take one look at Adora, sleeping in the bunk below her and she would feel her resolve crumble like a mountain. 

That’s always been part of it. Adora would never leave, even if Catra had asked her to. Every time she even thought of it, the same twisted feeling would flare within her — _How could she just leave her here?_

The other part was this: the Horde was nothing to her, has always been nothing to her, what else did it give her but blood in her mouth, but the ghost of a wound?

Then again, if there’s anything she’s learned over these past eighteen years, Catra is nothing either. Two jagged edges of the same ripped page. What would she be if she didn’t belong to this place?

“You could!” Adora says and that stupid expression is back, the infectious hope shining in those blue eyes of hers. That look always made her want to believe anything she said, even though she should know better, even though she _did_ know better.

“You could help us take down the Horde! Or you could leave and go, I don’t know, anywhere. Don't you remember all those times we talked about getting to see what's out there? You could do that,” She says. “You don’t have to stay here.”

“What, see the world?” Catra snaps. “You’re not dumb enough to really think people would be fine with some Horde soldier just showing up.”

“No, but I could help you,” Adora says. “We could figure it out. Together,” She holds out her hand, just like she’s been doing their whole lives, reaching for her and knowing she’ll take it. That was their promise after all.

(Catra had thought she forgot about it, after Thaymor — she remembers a part of her wanting to cry out _What about me? You would risk everything we’ve built to protect people you don’t even know? What was so wrong about me that I couldn’t possibly deserve the same?_ — and just came to her like she was an afterthought.

Now, she isn’t sure what to think.)

“Come with me,” Adora begs. “Please. I can’t do this without you.”

She looks at her hand, at the way it shakes, at the callouses and the scars she has spent her whole life memorizing. There’s nothing for her in the Fright Zone — there never had been. It’s always been _Adora_ ; she had always been the center of her world, the only thing that really mattered. 

If she stayed, if she ignored the tug at the pit of her stomach begging her to reach out and take her hand, then what even is there for her? What would she be staying for, other than to prove that she _can_ , that she isn’t the only one who can get left behind?

But, Catra thinks, she didn’t, did she? She came back. She had spent these last few weeks hoping, praying against the tendrils that wrapped around her like a desecration, that she would. And she did, even if it was reckless, even if it was stupid, _she came back._

She stares at the pleading, almost desperate look in Adora’s eyes, that asks her to stay, that asks _You coming?_

Catra does the one thing she has refused to let herself do for her entire life: she gives up.

She takes Adora’s hand.

━━━━━

A bucket of warm water falls over Catra’s head as her claws curl into her bare thighs.

Adora takes a glittery crystal-blue bottle in her hands as she presses her lips together. “I don’t need you to do this for me,” Catra says.

She hums at her. “I know,” She smoothes Catra’s damp hair down in a gentle caress that puts her on edge, “I want to. Besides, it’s not like you can wash your hair with your arm like that,” She says and Catra looks down at her arm, a transparent bandage covering the green scars. _Right_. Bow had checked on her a couple of hours ago and changed her bandage while Adora hovered, gnawing on her bottom lip like it had personally wronged her.

“It’s not that bad,” She says, because it _isn’t_ , because it doesn’t really feel like anything. “Not like I haven’t had worse.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Her hand rakes through her hair again and Catra can hear the frown in her voice. “You heard what Bow said. You need to take it easy.”

Her hand trails from her damp hair to her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, as her hand falls down to her arm, her touch feeling more like the electrifying shock of it as it wraps around her, choking her and —

Something in her gives a jolt and she flinches, trying to stifle that instinctive hiss that escapes her.

Adora notices anyway. Of course she does. “Sorry,” She says, her hand reeling back to clutch at the edge of the tub. Her voice is soft, gentle, barely above a whisper and Catra can’t stand it. “Can I touch you?”

 _No_ , Catra wants to say, _I can’t even stand to live in my own skin,_ She thinks, _I’ve spent years grasping for you in any way I can and now I want to be buried in you until nothing can ever separate us again._

What she says instead is, “Sure.”

Adora runs her hands through her hair, her touch unbearably gentle as she places more of the liquid from the bottle into her hands. It makes her feel like she’s burning. Catra never wants it to stop.

“You’ve never done this before,” She says.

“Desperate times calls for desperate measures,” She teases, and Catra can hear the smile in her voice, as bright as the moonlight. “Besides, it’s not like we’ve never taken showers together.”

She snorts. “Like that’s the same thing. Your clothes aren’t even off.”

“I could take them off,” Adora says, trailing a drenched hand down her arm. Her voice drops an octave deeper, Catra wouldn’t call it seductive; she settles for ridiculous.

She turns around some, looking her up and down and ignoring the flash of heat that shoots through her. “Doesn’t seem very efficient,” She smirks. “And I know you live for efficiency.”

Adora scoffs. “I am not _efficient_ ,” She says before realizing how that sounds. “Ugh, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, that battleplan next to our bed says otherwise. I'm pretty sure you could use that thing as a blanket.”

Her face screws up in outrage, just like Catra knew it would. “Okay, first of all," She starts and Catra snickers, "That would be a waste of a battleplan. There's no way that thing would keep you warm. And there’s nothing _wrong_ with being a little organized.”

“There’s a difference between organized and driving yourself crazy with plans,” She says. “You passed that line, oh, I don’t know, about a week ago?”

Adora rolls her eyes, and the hand that had been trailing down her arm pinches her. “You're so dramatic,” She says, and she sounds almost nostalgic for some reason. She darts forward to press her lips against her shoulder once, and then twice. “You’re sure this is okay?”

Bitterness rolls over her in waves, sinking its claws in and baring its teeth. “I said it was fine, didn’t I?”

“I know, I just — everyone’s been so on edge since we had to land on Eridani. And I know the past few weeks have been hard for you,” Adora says. “I just want to be sure that we’re, I don’t know, okay, I guess.”

She knows she should turn and hold her hand, say _We are okay, Of course we’re okay_ like she used to — like she _does_ , she’s always done that, hasn’t she? — but she’s never been good at doing what she’s _supposed_ to be doing; she's always rejected it with a clawed fist. “Whatever,” Catra says. “I’m sure I’ll get over it eventually.”

“Hey,” A hand clutches at her shoulder, smearing whatever was on Adora’s hand all over her and she gives her a smile, “You're not going to be completely okay right away. Just be patient,” Catra scoffs at that and Adora flicks a watery bubble into her face, “Come on, don't be so hard on yourself. People have to be nice to you, you know, otherwise I have to, like, beat them up or something, it's pretty much the law.”

She snorts at that, leaning into Adora's touch. "Says who?"

"Says everybody! Why else would you get married if you can’t punch someone and be like," At this, her voice lowers, and she shakes her fist, spraying bubbles all over the floor, "'That's my wife!' I mean, what other reasons are there?"

"You just want to beat someone up for me," Catra grins.

"I'm trying to learn how to be a good wife and you're _mocking_ me?"

"Didn't know being a good wife involved punching people."

"Duh," Adora laughs. She presses another kiss to her shoulder. "Didn't you learn anything from Glimmer?"

"Well, if it's from Sparkles it _must_ be true."

"Now you're getting it," She says, her hand going back to run through her hair, stopping for a moment to wipe the suds from her brow. "Go easy on yourself, okay? I'd hate to have to beat you up."

A laugh bubbles out of her throat and she reaches back to press her hand into Adora's cheek, her shoulder, desperate to touch her in any way she can. "What, can't make an exception for me?"

“Hm, nope," She says, resting her chin in the crook of her neck. "No exceptions, sorry.” Her hands give her hair a light tug, before she runs her fingers through it again, pressing her lips to her temple. “It’s only been a couple of months, Catra. And the war still isn’t over. It’s going to take a while to heal, and I'll be right here until you do. I’m not going anywhere.”

“What if that never happens?” She asks, terror clinging to her voice like a shadow. There’s never been any other choice for her, not really — she was ruined for this life, for destruction, the moment she was put inside that box.

Another kiss, this time on her cheek, and then the corner of her mouth. “Then, I’ll still be here. We look out for each other, remember?”

“Yeah,” Catra says, and she believes it, she will _make_ herself believe it, “We do.”

━━━━━

_ii._

Picture this: there is a girl, there is a lever, and there is a land of the dead that threatens to destroy her.

There is a girl and a world where she can get everything she wants.

There is a world, a universe, an entire _lifetime_ , where Catra doesn’t open the portal. She stops, she listens, she looks at Adora, desperate and pleading and guilt personified, and lets go. She doesn’t set fire to a world that’s been burning her since the day she was born.

Maybe there’s one where Adora stays, where she’s never taken to the Horde at all, where the Horde never even exists and she gets to live and she gets to be free and none of this ever happens.

There are worlds out there, infinite worlds.

When she was younger, when she was naive and hopeful and the Fright Zone had not yet strangled that out of her like her own personal garrote, she had believed that.

 _I think I’ve known you before,_ she had whispered softly to Adora as she pressed her cheek to her bony shoulder. _It’s dumb but it’s like I knew you before we even met._

Adora had hummed then frowned. _What do you mean?_

 _I don’t know,_ but she did know, she still does, _This isn’t the first time we’ve met. It can’t be. I know you way too well for that._

Adora had laughed at that, or she will laugh — the order doesn’t matter, time is still a bit strange in this world outside itself. _Catra,_ and she laced their fingers together, _We’ve known each other for years._

 _Exactly,_ she says with the distinct confidence of a teenager who has somehow already figured everything out, _I’ve known you longer than that. I just know it._

She had nodded, like that had made perfect sense to her. _Do you think we were friends? In those other times?_

 _Duh,_ she had poked her forehead with a claw, _Why wouldn’t we be?_

In these other worlds, Adora never finds that stupid sword, she makes a different choice. She _chooses_ her. Catra will do whatever it takes to find those worlds. She will do whatever she can to keep them.

━━━━━

“Stop stepping on my feet.”

“You’re the one who wanted to dance,” Adora pushes their hips flush together before giving her a spin. It’s ungraceful, and she nearly slips as she does it.

“I just wanted to see how you’d deal with dancing in those heels with your two left feet,” She ignores Adora’s scoff of indignation, “I didn’t ask you to break my foot.”

“I haven't broken anything.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m down a claw because of you,” She deadpans.

Adora grins down at her and her hand finds its place back to Catra’s waist as they continue to glide around the room. “Well, maybe if you wore some shoes for once —”

She scoffs and Adora pinches her through the fabric of her suit. “What, and look like an idiot like you? I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh, come on, I’m not that bad,” She whines which Catra snorts at. Adora pinches her again.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Adora spins her again, her brow pinched in concentration, and Catra sinks a fang into her bottom lip to keep herself from smiling. She gives a nod at her whole getup, “What’s with the outfit, anyway? You look like Queen Sparkles threw up on you.”

Adora snorts. “What, Angella doesn’t get her own nickname?”

“I’m feeling generous,” She says, shrugging. “But, seriously, you gonna explain to me why you look like a walking glitter bomb?”

She rolls her eyes. “Would it kill you to say I look nice?”

“You _don’t_ look nice. You look uncomfortable.”

She looks down at herself, at the silver and gold dress that barely falls to the floor. Catra has to admit she does look nice — she doesn’t think Adora’s capable of looking anything but, which she’ll never admit to even under the threat of _death_ — but it looks off, all pillowy edges and poofy fabric. It looks like Bright Moon crawled into her and died a painful, glittery death. 

“Yeah, I know,” She sighs, “But I’m supposed to look all, you know,” She waves a hand and makes a _whoosh_ sound.

Catra smirks. “Princess-y?”

She laughs. “That’s one way of putting it, yeah. It could be worse, though,” She gives a shudder, “At least it’s not pink.”

“Oh, you definitely should’ve let Sparkles talk you into that.”

Adora groans. “It’d be awful.”

“It’d be _hilarious_ ,” She cackles. “It’d make this whole thing a lot more fun.”

Adora casts a glance to the room, skimming over Sparkles and Arrow Boy — whose suit has been altered to make room for a crop top, because of _course_ it has — to where Scorpia is talking to that princess, gesturing wildly.

When she looks back down at her, she’s frowning, her blue eyes shining with _something_. Adora always had a knack for being as open as a wound and yet somehow completely unreadable. “You didn’t have to come, you know. I know these things are always weird for you.”

“What, being around a bunch of princesses that hate my guts?”

“They don’t —”

“Whatever,” She lifts a shoulder into a half-shrug. “This is the last one for a while, right? Bright Moon is probably gonna be too busy mourning you for anymore parties,” The words send a shock through her, spilling from her lips without her permission. _Right_ , Catra remembers. Adora is leaving. Again. She doesn’t know how she could’ve forgotten that.

Adora sighs, giving Catra that stupid, pitying look of hers. “It’s only for a couple of months. It’s not like we’re going to be gone that long. The ship doesn’t exactly have the supplies for it,” She shrugs. 

“The legendary She-Ra is leaving us to save a bunch of planets —”

“— freeing the universe from the First Ones —”

“— that clearly calls for a day of silence. I mean, how are they supposed to cope? Think of the _children_ , Adora,” She twirls Catra around in retaliation and she steps on one of Adora’s heels in response.

“They’re not gonna stop all the festivals because of me,” She says. They glide across the room once more before her face pales and she bites her lip. “Wait, you don’t think they’d do that, do you?" She asks, gasping. "How many statues am I gonna come back to?”

“Oh, hundreds,” Catra smirks. “No one’ll know what to do with themselves without those muscles to fawn over.”

“Catra,” Adora starts, and she has half a mind to step on her foot again, “Are you gonna miss me or something?”

“What? No!”

Adora hums, her arms flexing in a way that does not have her pressing her fingers into the hard planes of her muscles. “You know I won’t tell anyone,” She says, and, yeah, Catra decides, she absolutely hates her. “I know how embarrassing that is for you.”

“Oh, shut up,” She shoves at Adora’s cheek and she laughs, that stupid snort that Catra has spent her entire life chasing following it, “Get over yourself. I'm not going to miss you. I don’t even _like_ you.”

Her answering grin is unbearable. “That’s not what you said last night.”

“I will crush you into the ground.”

“Okay, okay,” She laughs. “I’d like to have at least one dance with you that doesn’t end in explosions.”

“I make no promises.”

Adora’s grin widens but she’s silent, focused, as she whirls both of them around the room, inching them suspiciously closer to the table containing all the sweets. Why Catra let her lead is beyond her. “You could come with us, you know,” She says and Catra snorts.

“I’m under house arrest, remember? Besides,” She risks a glance at Adora, whose eyes are glued to the other side of the room, where the rest of her little trio are stuck to each other’s side and giggling. Catra clenches her jaw.

She had done this before, when they were still cadets in the Horde, when she had still been filled with the stupid belief that maybe there was something in her that Adora could love. 

Even now, as her ritual of sneaking out of Adora’s bedroom in the early hours of the morning after she kisses her goodbye has almost become commonplace, some part of her that refuses to be quelled still _hopes_. She knows she should know better by now. “You’d probably be better off without me.”

Adora gapes at her. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Do I look like I’d be a good fit for diplomacy?”

“It’s not _diplomacy_ ,” Adora says, exasperated, “We’re still going to be helping the rebellions on all those planets.”

She nods to where the Queen is talking to Castaspella. “Does she know that?” She nearly laughs at the way Adora flushes. “Thought so.”

She scowls. “Well, it’s not like I can just go, Oh, hey, remember the relief aid mission we talked about? What if we just freed a bunch of planets instead!”

“I mean, can’t you?”

Her shoulders sag. “Yeah. But, last time it didn’t really go so well.”

This time Catra does laugh. “Sounds terrible,” She says, absolutely gleeful.

“I don’t get at least a _little_ sympathy?”

“Nope,” Catra says, popping the ‘p’. “Guess you’ll just have to suffer through diplomacy like everyone else.”

She expects Adora to laugh, to scowl even as her lips twitch with the threat of a smile. She doesn’t. The hand on her hip tightens into an almost bruising grip, and her voice is distraught when she speaks again. “Catra,” She says.

“What?”

“Look at me,” When she looks up, Adora is staring at her desperately, as if her very existence here is a betrayal in of itself, as if she could convince her through sheer willpower alone. “Come with me.”

“I can’t,” She says and the ire in her tone shocks her. _Where had that come from?_

“Yes, you can,” The hand that had been clasping Catra’s own moves to grasp at her hip. “I’m sure I could talk to Angella and figure something out. You don’t have to stay here.”

“And do what,” She says, “Go to war with you?”

“Why not? We could go see what’s out there!” Adora says with those dumb hopeful, pleading eyes. And Catra wants to run because she can’t, she just _can’t_ , she needs to stay here so it all doesn’t come crumbling down. Why can’t Adora see that? But she doesn’t care because she keeps going, blind, always so fucking _blind_ , to Catra. “Besides, I always fight better with you by my side.”

She barely manages to resist the urge to laugh at that, because that’s such _bullshit_. Adora has never been better with her around, the last two years are proof of that. “Would _you_ stay?”

Adora frowns. “What?”

“If I asked,” She links her hands behind Adora’s neck as they start to sway. “Would you stay?”

“Are you asking?”

She’s always been asking, in the only ways she can. “Just answer the question.”

Her gaze bores into her, as if she’s trying to plead with her for an instruction manual, a _guide_. Well, Catra won’t give it to her — she’s already given too damn much to Adora. “Catra, I —”

“Would you?”

She shakes her head, and, yeah, of course. “I can’t.”

“Yeah,” She says. She supposes they both have their answer.

Catra tucks her face into the crook of Adora’s neck. She smells like spring, like lavender, like the metallic scent of a freshly sharpened sword. 

They keep dancing.

━━━━━

Adora’s hand is tight in hers as they walk through the depths of the Whispering Woods.

It’s cold and Catra wraps Adora’s jacket further around her.

It’s itchy and clashes with the orange-red of her bodysuit, and she had flushed when Adora had given it to her, shooting her a glare as she had watched Adora unclip her belt and throw it over her shoulders with a smile.

She rolls her eyes as Adora smirks at her now, gesturing to her jacket with a raised brow, but she doesn’t say anything. She refuses to give her the satisfaction.

(It’s stupid but it makes something in Catra’s chest unfurl and break open; she’s always chased those moments where Adora is focused on her and nothing but her.)

She swings their hands together as they duck under a tree, and she can practically feel her hands shaking with nerves. This technically wasn’t an official mission ━ it wasn’t a mission at _all_ , despite Adora’s protests to the contrary ━ Adora had cornered her after she had come back from dinner.

(She had pulled her to their bed the second she came in, cutting off Catra’s protests with a quick kiss. “We have to go to Beast Island,” She had said.

Catra had merely raised a brow in response. “What? Do you even know what time it is?”

“Yeah, I ━ Wait. How was dinner?”

She had rolled her eyes. “Is that really what you want to talk about right now? Why the hell do you need to go to _Beast Island_?”

“Do you remember that weapon? That Mara mentioned?” At Catra’s nod, she had gnawed on her bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. “I have to find a way to disable it. It’s the only way. We need to get Entrapta.”

“Adora, Entrapta defected.”

Her lips had pressed together in a grimace. “I know that.”

”She chose to go there,” She said.

“I know that, Catra," She had huffed, "But we need her. I don’t even think _Bow_ can do this on his own.” 

“So, let me get this straight,” She had said, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, “You want to steal a ship, in the middle of the night —“

”— What do you mean, the middle of the night? It’s barely even _nine_ —“

“— Just so we can go to some place you used to have nightmares about?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Yeah, okay,” Catra had said, with a sigh, “I’m in.”

“Wait, really?”

“Duh. I mean, this is a terrible plan, don’t get me wrong, but of course I’m with you.”

A smile had spread across her face before she registered the rest of what she had said. “I can’t just wait around and do nothing, Catra,” She had sighed.

She had rolled her eyes, sitting beside Adora on the bed. “We’re not doing nothing. It’s called strategy, dummy. We can’t just barge ahead with the first plan we come up with.”

“I’m not barging ahead,” She had stuck her tongue out at Catra’s very pointed _Uh-huh_ , “I need to do _something_. None of us know enough about First Ones tech to disable it. Entrapta’s the only one, and she sent herself over there just to find out more.”

“Then we’re going,” Catra had said, pressing their foreheads together. Like she wouldn’t always go ahead with Adora’s dumb, reckless plans.)

She frowns, running a thumb over hers. “You’re not actually taking her side, are you?”

“There are no _sides_ ,” Catra snorts, because calling it that just makes them seem like they’re twelve, “You’re both just being stupid.”

Adora scoffs. “I’m not being stupid,” She sighs as Catra raises a brow at her in skepticism, “You heard what Mara said. It’s dangerous. She put us in a different dimension because she was so scared of what it could do.”

“That was years ago.”

“Yeah,” Adora says, and the _Duh_ in her tone is nearly a living thing, “And it’s only gotten worse. You can’t honestly think this is a good idea.”

She gives her hand a squeeze, trying to hide the way she wants to scowl and grit her teeth at her patronizing tone. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

Adora stops them in front of a tree, and her eyes narrow as she gives her hand a quick tug. She’s giving her that look, that pitying one, befitting for a girl with a see-through heart. It makes her want to scream, it makes her want to kiss her senseless.

Adora lets go of her hand to wrap her arms around her waist. “ _Do_ you think we should activate the Heart of Etheria?”

She gives her a look. “You really want to get into this now?”

“ _Catra_.”

“Look,” She sighs, “All I’m saying is that it’s not as horrible of an idea as you’re making it out to be.”

“Mara died to make sure the Heart would never go off,” Adora says and her tone is laden with the same one she had given Glimmer a couple of hours ago, the one with the edge of betrayal sunk into it. 

“We’re really trusting the word of someone who died over a thousand years ago?”

“She said it was siphoning more magic, Catra. If it goes off, it could tear the entire planet apart,” She argues.

“It’s not a bad weapon,” She says. “That’s what it was built to do. And I’m not saying we try and access it right now. But it’s dumb to just throw it away without even trying to see how it works. These aren’t exactly normal circumstances, Adora. You saw what happened in Salineas.”

She scoffs. “So, what, you think we should just use it? After everything?”

“ _I_ think you shouldn’t blame Sparkles for getting a little desperate. We could use it if we had time to figure out how it works.”

“But we _don’t_ have time,” Adora says. “You said it yourself, the Horde is gaining so much more territory.”

She sighs. “I know that. But it’s still better than both of you idiots getting so set in your plans that you refuse to listen to anyone else,” Adora opens her mouth to protest but she cuts her off with a glare, “Look, you asked, didn’t you?”

Her hands move to curl around her hip and she huffs, just to the edge of incredulous. “Then why are you coming with me?” She asks.

“I told you, I’m with you no matter what, dummy,” There’s a pause as she jerks her head behind them, to where Bow is practically glued to his tracker-pad as he gives them space. “Besides, can’t let you and Arrow Boy have all the fun, now can I?”

Adora laughs at that. “You know, I’m not sure if I would count Beast Island as fun.”

“Could be,” She shrugs. “At least we can see if Octavia was lying out of her ass with all those stories.”

“It’s _Octavia_. I wouldn’t put it past her,” Adora’s fingers dig into her hips as she grins, leaning down to rest their foreheads together. “It’s gonna be okay,” She says. “Everything’s going to be okay.” 

Catra raises a brow, running a hand down her arm. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Uh, both?”

“It’s going to be _fine_. You’d have to be stupid to believe all those stories,” She sends her a look, teasing and playful. “Hopefully, you’ve learned from that.”

Adora rolls her eyes. “I was six! I’m sorry if I got a little scared!”

“You literally hid in my bed for weeks after lights out. That’s more than a _little_.”

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Who would I be if I did?” She watches as Adora teases her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes scanning over her sword that’s transformed around her wrist.

“Hey. Get out of your own head, dummy,” Catra says, pressing the tips of her fingers further into her arms, just in the way Adora has always needed, “It really is going to be fine,” She lightly taps a claw against her temple, “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

“But what if it all goes wrong?”

Catra shrugs. “Then you have me.”

“What if I don’t? What if we don’t stay together?”

Her grip tightens, her claws sinking into the fabric of Adora’s compression shirt. “We will,” Catra says and she means it. She will _make sure_ they will. She is willing to burn this world to the ground for it. “None of us are going anywhere,” Something dangerous creeps into her voice as she sinks her claws further.

“You promise?” She asks.

“I promise.”

Adora’s grip loosens on her hips, her fingers going slack as they fall back to her sides, but she still doesn’t relax. Catra can hear her breath hitch as she looks her over, frantically searching for _something_ , as though she were on the brink of death.

She can feel her slipping from her grasp and it makes something hot and bitter and scathing curl in her chest; she blows a kiss to resentment and welcomes it as one would welcome a punch to the face, with a grim smile, with blood staining your teeth.

 _Just stay,_ Catra thinks as the feeling rears back and strikes at her with all its might, again and again. She clings to her arms tighter, falling into her in a mockery of affection. _Just trust me,_ She thinks. _Don’t ruin this._

Adora wrenches away from Catra and she tries to hide the way her teeth grit, the way her eyes narrow. Her breath is coming in bursts, and now her eyes are flickering over the trees and then to the ground. Catra reaches out to take Adora’s hand, to calm her, something genuine turning her bitterness into a dull throb.

Her eyes widen as she looks at her, at their intertwined hands and a gasp drags itself from her throat.

“Catra,” She says, “Where did Bow go?”

The feeling strikes at her again. It makes her teeth throb, her jaw hurt. The blood spills faster. 

She bites the inside of her cheek. “What are you talking about?”

“Bow,” She says. “He was here.”

“Adora, there’s no one here but us,” She says _._

She gapes at her. “There was — Bow was here. He was _right here_ , Catra. Don’t you remember?”

She could do it, she thinks. She could tell her everything she saw, everything she did. Adora would nod, she would smile, and she would tell her they’re going to fix this.

(That’s just what she does. It’s never about her or what she’s doing or what’s being done to her. Catra has always been nothing to her, a means to an end, the bloodied stain that ruins everything in its path.

Adora had never given a shit about Catra before, not really, and of course she isn’t going to start now.)

She _could_ do it. But then this world would vanish, it would be gone and all Catra would be left with is Adora, the one who left her, the one who let _her_ wrap her hands around her throat and crush with a smile on her face, with the faux innocence of a saint. The one who pushes and twists and leaves and acts like this was a kindness.

 _Yes_ , Catra thinks, yes, she could do it. But that’s the world she’d be going back to. What kind of a fucking choice was that?

The lie slips off her tongue too easily. “No, Adora,” She says. “I don’t.”

━━━━━

_iii._

She can still hear it, Adora’s screams.

 _Catra_ , she pleads, _Please, don’t!_

She can always hear it, like it’s still happening, and maybe it is. All of it bleeds together.

One moment, she’s watching as Adora struggles against her bonds, her blue eyes looking at her like she holds the world in her hands. The next, she’s pushing the lever forward as Adora’s scream of terror echoes in her ears. 

(She does, she realizes. In that single moment, she had the entire world clutched in her. She always wanted Adora to look at her like that, like she had hung the moons in the sky, like she’s the reason everything exists.

She’s always searched for that look. But she never wanted it to be like this.

Still, she takes it. She will take and take and take until there’s nothing left — she wants Adora to know how it feels, to watch someone hold the world in their hands, to hold your own life in their hands, and look you dead in the eye as they _crush_.)

In every lifetime she looks at her like that. In every lifetime, Catra is hoping that this is real.

In every lifetime, she watches those eyes, the firm press of her lips, the small furrow in her brow and she pulls.

They are this world’s beating heart and the world has decided to swallow them alive. There is a lesson in that, Catra thinks. Somewhere.

(It’s this: love is a pity project. It’s the feeling the tendrils of electricity coiling around her, it’s nothing but burning. It’s being left behind with a smile, with a hand reaching out.

Love is what happens when you wake up and decide to devour someone whole.

There’s another lesson in this; there’s an unlearning that Catra must undertake.

She can see it flash before her eyes: at 12-years-old as Adora had patched her up, hands gentle and digging into the supplies she had stolen; at 15-years-old as she had danced with her in the dark, teaching her how to move with ease the way she hadn’t been able to master during the simulation; at 17-years-old as she had counted the strands of Adora’s hair that had come loose from her ponytail, stared at the blue of her eyes, counted the inches between them and what it would be like to just inch closer and closer and closer and kiss her senseless.

Love was a girl with a bright smile, with kind eyes, with determination seeped into her very being.

Love is being left behind without a single glance, because you are not innocent enough, because you are not strong enough, because you are never _enough_.

Love — she’s learning and she will _keep_ learning, Catra will never allow herself to forget this lesson — is a strangle hold with teeth.)

She’s back in that room. She’s watching as Adora stares at her, as she pleads with her, like she has done in every other lifetime. Like she will do again, over and over until they are sick of each other. Until they have burned each other down to the marrow.

She opens her eyes. She smiles. She pulls the lever again.

━━━━━

It’s been a while since Catra’s been in a prison cell.

It’s not what she’s used to. Gone are the handcuffs that dig into your wrists and the cold metal floor that burns if you sit on it for too long.

Her prison cell is, well, it doesn’t even count as a _prison_. There’s a blue aura trapping her in her place, surrounded by crystals and pastels so bright that she’s almost blinded. Catra’s pretty sure there’s a _fountain_ in this room.

She’s not sure what she expected. It’s the exact kind of shit she should’ve seen coming from them. It’d be less obvious if they had just held up some glittery sign that said _Come destroy us, we have no idea what we’re doing!!_ double exclamation marks and all. 

Still, Catra thinks, it definitely beats the Fright Zone.

She looks up at Adora as her foot taps furiously on the glass floor — which is so unbelievably _stupid_ , like honestly, who designs these things? — her brows pinched and her shoulders sagged in fatigue. She hasn’t been sleeping.

Her face is blank as she stares at her. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen that look on her, at least not with Catra. There was always _something_ in Adora’s eyes whenever she looked at her; it had never mattered to her that it was hate or disgust or even annoyance — at least then she still had her full attention.

Her mouth presses into a firm line. “Why are you here, Catra?”

“Don’t know if you noticed,” She says, tapping her cell with a claw, watching as the blue ripples and shakes. “But there’s this thing called a prison. Makes it a little hard to just walk around,” She watches as Adora grits her teeth and she smiles, “I’d love to show you how it works.”

“That’s not ━” Adora snaps, almost exasperated. _There she is,_ Catra wants to think, but almost instantly that expression is gone, her hands balling into fists at her side. “Why are you _here_? This was only supposed to be temporary until we could get Glimmer here. We both know you could break out of this without even trying.”

“How _is_ Sparkles? You two still playing Princess?”

Her face darkens. “She’s Queen now. Thanks to you.” 

Adora scowls and her arms cross over her chest. She looks about as intimidating as a toddler. “Would you just answer the question? Why are you still here?”

Her claws rake against the floor, once, and then twice, solely for the opportunity of seeing Adora grimace. “You know, this has got to be in the top five of shittiest prisons but it’s still a _prison_ ,” She sneers. “What the hell do you expect me to do?”

“Break out!” Adora says, throwing her hands in the air. “Or try to escape! Do _something_. Why aren’t you even trying?”

Her eyes narrow as she stands to look Adora in the eyes. Suddenly, she can’t stand the idea of Adora looking down on her, with irritation etched onto her face. “Are you seriously mad that I haven’t tried to escape your dumb prison?”

“I’m _mad_ ,” She grits out, “That you haven’t even tried.”

She scoffs. “What, one win wasn’t enough for you?”

Adora takes a step forward, and then another, until their faces are nearly touching, separated by nothing but the shock of blue. “Since when do you just give up? That’s not what you do. You’ve never given up on anything in your _life_.”

“Why do you even want me to leave so badly?” Catra asks, scowling. “Don’t act like this whole thing wasn’t your idea. ”

“They want to execute you,” Adora says, abruptly. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, her gaze flitting from Catra to the double doors behind her. She watches as she gives the pin clipped to her belt a quick _snap_. “All of Bright Moon wants you dead, Catra.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, ‘So’? You were the Second in Command. Do you really think Glimmer is going to hesitate during your trial? Do you think any of them are? This isn’t a _game_.”

“Why are you even telling me this, Adora?”

“So you can do something about it,” She grits out, her chest heaving as tears spring into her eyes. “I can’t — she won’t listen to me. I can’t save you from this, Catra.”

“Good,” She says. She’s never been happier that there is finally one fucking thing that Adora can’t save her from. She’s always hated that part of her, the part that always says _Let me fix this, Catra, Let me build you a safe and drop you inside it and lock it away forever._

Adora raises a brow, incredulous. “Good?”

“How many times do I have to tell you this?” She spits out. “I don’t need you to save me. Go and make someone else your pet project.”

“That’s not even what this is about,” She grouses, like she hadn’t even said anything, “Can you take this seriously? I’m not kidding when I say you could get hurt. They’re not going to go easy on you.”

“What do you care?” She says, curling her claws into her palms. “This is what you wanted _._ ”

“I never wanted this,” Adora says and Catra scoffs. “I _didn’t_. I’ve never wanted you to get hurt.”

She rolls her eyes at that. She remembers how Adora stood back and watched when they were kids, always stepping in because she wanted that little sliver of control. She’s been letting Catra get hurt their entire lives, only stopping for herself, for her stupid ego. “You never had any trouble before.”

“That’s not true,” She says. “Do you think I was happy fighting the only person I —” Adora stops herself, biting her lip as her eyes widen in fear.

Something slashes its way through Catra’s throat, and it feels like she’s suffocating, like the air is being snatched from her lungs and Adora is the only thing — like her lifeline and she has always fucking been her lifeline; she is so _sick_ of it — that keeps her heart beating.

Adora takes a breath, an almost mechanical look spreading across her face, and Catra can tell she’s about to deliver the final blow, sink the knife into her abdomen, bring the sword down against her neck. “I’m sorry,” She says. “I wanted you to _lose_ , Catra. I never wanted to lose you.”

━━━━━

“Are you even listening to me?”

Catra blinks from her spot on the bed, because she was not, in fact, listening to her. She schools her face into something less bemused, her ears flicking down.

“I was distracted,” She says, purring at the way Adora grins before her face shifts into a scowl at the way she flicks her cheek.

“ _Anyways_ ,” She says, “About next week —”

Catra raises a brow. “Next week?”

“Princess Prom, Catra,” She says, her tone fond and exasperated. _Right_ , she remembers. _Princess Prom_. Adora’s arm curls tighter against her waist as she lets out a huff. Catra leans into the touch, another purr reverberating through her.

She cards her fingers through Adora’s hair, which spills over her shoulders. “Princess Prom? What about it?”

That gets her another eye roll. “It’s in a week. I know you've been really busy with work but we do, you know, actually have to figure out what we're doing," Adora lifts her head to look at her, almost horrified. "Wait, you're not going to wear a dress, are you?"

"In what world would I wear a _dress_?"

"In Glimmer's world, that's for sure," Adora mumbles, almost petulant.

"Uh, what?"

"Oh, I mean, it was a while ago," She says, tucking her head back into the crook of Catra's neck as a light flush spreads across her cheeks. "Back when we were still enemies. We were trying to come up with a plan to take back — actually, the only important thing is that in _Glimmer's_ plan, you were wearing this dress. I mean, she was _very_ detailed. It was low-cut and had a slit."

She laughs, trailing her claws up and down Adora's bare back, grinning as she shivers. Yeah, she’s definitely not letting her live this down anytime soon. "I don’t know what's more embarrassing, this or the fact that you can remember this word for word."

"It's not _word for word_ ," Adora says. She practically shoves her head further into Catra's neck, which only makes her laugh harder. "Shut up."

"You know, I knew you were obsessed with me but this is kind of low, even for you," She smirks.

"Please," Adora scoffs, "Like you weren't staring at me in that dress at the last Princess Prom," She lifts her head again to grin at her and Catra considers shoving her face with a pillow. "Or that time I transformed in front of you and you couldn't stop staring at my arms for, like, five minutes."

"It wasn’t five minutes."

She hums. "Ten minutes then."

This time she does shove her face. "You're the worst."

"And yet you married me anyway."

"Clearly," Catra says, pressing a teasing kiss to her lips, "Your idiocy is rubbing off me."

"Like I'm the one who made you propose."

"You were a bad influence," She deadpans, and the laugh that spills out is more of a giggle, ending with an undignified snort. 

"Clearly," Adora laughs. She pokes her side, once, and then twice, “So. Princess Prom. Are you going to wear a suit?"

"Probably," She shrugs. "The one I wore last time wasn’t half bad."

"It _definitely_ wasn't bad," Adora clears her throat. "So, purple suit again? The time's probably going to be really tight but I'm sure we can ask the tailors if they have anything like that on hand."

She raises a brow. "Why are you so obsessed with what I'm going to be wearing anyway?"

"Is that a no to the suit?" She pouts.

"That's a _yes_ to the suit. I'm just wondering. You're never like this with any of the other things we have to go to," Catra says.

"I don't know," Adora shrugs. "I thought it would be cute, if we could match. That's what Bow and Glimmer are doing."

Catra snorts. "I knew he was behind this. Is that what you guys have been scheming over for the last couple of weeks?"

"We don't _scheme_. If anyone schemes, it's you and Glimmer," Catra scoffs, opening her mouth to say something but Adora cuts her off with a kiss. "Shut up. We were going over that lost tech from Almere, and thought it might be fun," She shrugs.

Catra lets out a _Hm_ at that, and her claws tap against Adora’s bare skin. She gets lost in it, that feeling, first she can feel the soft touch as her claws tap pattern, a number, that no one knows but them. She taps again, and the feeling is gone, replaced by static, replaced by darkness, replaced by something that isn’t even there, that was never there because it’s just —

“Hey,” Adora says and Catra tenses her shoulders to hide her flinch. She looks back at her fingers, they look the same as they always do, the black is gone, the static is gone, that brief buzz of nothingness has disappeared as fast as it came. Catra sheathes her claws.

Her voice is teasing but she can hear the worry behind it. “I thought you said you were going to listen,” Adora says, her thumb tracing a pattern into Catra’s hip.

Her hand stills then clenches. “I _am_ listening,” She retorts, eliciting a small snort from Adora. “Takes me a while to process your usual brand of bullshit.”

She rolls her eyes as her lips twitch up into a smile. “I said, like, 3 words.”

“Duh,” She says, and she presses a biting kiss to her collarbone. “See? Listening.”

“You’re so full of it,” Adora laughs. She leans up to brush her lips against Catra’s jaw. “Do you remember our first Princess Prom?”

She nearly snorts at that, because, _yeah_ , of course she does. Like she could forget that. “You mean do I remember the time you shoved me into an ice sculpture? Kind of hard to forget, yeah.”

“Alright, well,” Adora says. “I didn’t _shove_ you.”

There’s a scoff and then the press of her claws into Adora’s waist, light enough to not leave a mark but harsh enough to annoy her. “Yes, you did! The entire sculpture broke!”

She flushes, because Catra is _right_. She totally shoved her. “That was an accident.”

“What, you tripped so hard you attacked me in the middle of a dance?”

Adora frowns, that little crease in her brow getting larger. “That’s not how it happened.”

For the first time all night, she feels her resolve crumble. “Isn’t it? It wasn’t that long ago. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.”

“Catra,” She lifts her head from where it had been nestled into Catra’s neck, and Catra digs her claws into her palm to keep her ears from flattening at her expression. It doesn’t work. “Princess Prom was a decade ago. The war’s been over for years now.”

She wants to scoff, laugh, because that doesn’t make any sense. The war hasn’t even been over for a _day_ — it’s a constant thorn in her side, day in and day out. Catra can’t imagine it not existing as this tempest of death and destruction.

She remembers getting that First One’s tech for Hordak a few months ago; she remembers Adora striking him down with her sword, thrusting it into the clearing and kissing her as the rest of the world celebrated.

She remembers — God, she remembers.

(There is a memory, somewhere buried deep in her mind that she won’t let out. That was the whole point of this, wasn’t it? An escape, a reprieve, an end. She didn’t want her to be the thing that buries her, she didn’t want to remember any of it at all.

That’s always been her problem, though. Catra has always remembered too much — she can remake the world as she pleases, remake her memories as twisted, as _perfect_ as she wants — but she remembers. She wants so fucking badly to forget.)

A hand cups her cheek and the only thing that keeps her from clawing Adora’s face off is her effortless dodge. “Hey,” She says, “Stay with me.” She wipes away a tear, her tear, and Catra wants to run, wants to stumble out of this bed but Adora’s weight keeps her down, keeps her grounded.

She doesn’t know if that’s worse.

“What are you doing here?” She asks.

“I live here,” Adora laughs, not unkindly. “I have for years. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes,” She doesn’t, she does but it’s all jumbled up, “What am I doing here?”

Something in her expression softens. Catra can’t decide what. “You live here too,” She gets up to grab something off of the nightstand. She presses it into Catra’s hand and it’s cold, metallic, and golden like She-Ra’s armor. “I gave this to you, remember?”

She dodges the question. “Kind of a dumb gift if you ask me. What is this, some kind of weird Bright Moon token?”

Adora laughs and the sound startles her. _Why does it startle her?_ “You know I was kinda unimpressed with it too,” She turns her hand over to press a kiss to her knuckles, “I’m not even sure if Bright Moon has a souvenir shop. Sometimes Bow buys these little She-Ra toys and I have no idea where he gets them from. He said a festival but I’m pretty sure he’s making them himself.”

There are many things Catra wants to ask but she settles on, “What’s a souvenir shop?”

“I’ve never taken you to the Singing River, have I? We should go next time, they have the best souvenirs. You have to try their ice cream too,” She says.

Catra nods, once, and then twice. She doesn’t know what to say to that. Adora must notice because she crawls back into bed, moving them so Catra is curled into her chest. “Wanna go back to bed?”

Memory rushes back again. A portal. A lever. A choice. “Yeah,” She decides. “I’m tired. Let’s go back to bed.”

 _She doesn’t want you,_ a voice in her head whispers again. _She will never want you like that. You have always been the smear on the back of the page, you are the dirt on her boot._

For once, she ignores it. She lets herself live in the lie. She stays.

━━━━━

_iv._

It starts with the portal.

Except, no. It doesn’t. It starts, this whole thing always starts, with that badge, with _her_ . That is the moment everything ended for her, and she was stupid to think anything could be salvaged from what she ruined.

She had been so stupid to fall for it. She should’ve known better — she _did_ know better, she always did. Every time Shadow Weaver laid a hand on Adora’s cheek and brushed a dark blonde strand away from her face, she knew what she was doing.

It was always so obvious too — then again, this is Adora, of course she didn’t notice; she never did, unless it was for the _mission_ , unless it was someone she needed to save against all odds — showing her, showing them both, who was better, who was wanted.

There was always something inherently repulsive about Catra. She poisoned, she taunted, she ruined everything she touched. That’s what those touches meant. Adora was loved for one simple reason: she was always better, and she was never her.

And she knew this. She did, and still she chose to give her that damn badge. She hoped that, maybe, finally, that there was nothing ruinous about her. She hoped that _she_ could see that she deserved everything Adora ever got and more.

Her voice had been so kind — and, honestly, that should’ve been her first clue; Shadow Weaver was never _kind_ to her, not even as a trick, she preferred her strikes to given with a sharp and barbarous gleam; she always liked Catra to know just what she was getting herself into. Catra had never heard her sound like that, at least not with her. That was the _Adora_ voice.

(She had gotten good at categorizing her voices, her moods. The soft, almost sickly sweet tone was always for Adora, always after training when she inevitably performed better than Catra ever could — that had never been true, Catra could probably hand Adora her ass, she had, in fact, in those lax sparring sessions they had sometimes, but she knew there was no point; beating Adora in training gave her nothing but scars, she knew that from experience.

The severe, guttural tone was only for her, when Catra had committed the lone sin of merely _existing_ near her. She never could decide what caused it. Sometimes it was because she fell asleep in Cobalt’s class. Other times it was because she scored below Adora during training, or above her, or _near_ her. 

All she knew from her years of hiding is that that tone meant danger, it meant electricity and pain so deep that it made her want to tear her own flesh off.)

And, still, Catra fell for it. Shadow Weaver was just using her, because of course she was. She wasn’t _Adora_. She didn’t get things like that.

She never would.

She should’ve just given up from the start. At least then, she wouldn’t be chasing ghosts, pipe dream upon pipe dream, looking for a world where everything is right — where she gets to just be and no one gets their hands around her neck and chokes, just for the crime of not being Adora, of not being as perfect and right and just as she always is — at least then it would just all _end_.

Catra wants nothing more than for it to end.

She wants nothing more than to shackle herself to Adora and never let go, no matter what.

She’s keeping their fire burning; she’s making sure they will both burn from the inside out.

No matter what.

━━━━━

Catra doesn’t remember how she got here.

All she remembers are flashes — just the slash of a sword against her ribs, the press of Adora’s hand in hers as she smiles — even now, as Adora hovers above her, practically straddling her, that’s all she can remember.

“Catra,” Adora says. No, not Adora, she corrects. _She-Ra_. That tiara of hers glitters in the light of the moons and her eyes, glowing and electrifying, looking nothing like the blue-gray eyes she’s so used to. “Catra, hey.”

She lets out a groan in response. Her entire body feels like it’s burning and her hands shake as Adora panics from above her. “Hey, stay with me, okay?”

Catra presses her palm into her abdomen, blinking in surprise at the blood that smears her palm. _Right_ , she thinks. That’s new.

“Adora,” She croaks, despite herself. She digs her palm into the wound again.

Tears slide down her cheeks as she moves to cradle Catra in her arms. It makes her feel like a child. It makes her want to sink her claws into her so she never lets go. “It’s okay,” She says, and Catra nearly laughs at the absurdity of it, at _She-Ra_ crying over her. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

“Fuck,“ She says, pressing her palm further into her side as she winces.

“It’s gonna be okay, alright? I’m going to get you out of here, I promise.”

 _Well, where the hell is here?_ Catra wants to ask. She doesn’t. Instead she laughs. “Didn’t think you had it in you,” She says and the metallic taste of blood paints her mouth. 

She remembers now: there had been a fight.

It had gone as it usually does, She-Ra had ran after her like a battering ram while Catra had dodged before landing a hard kick to her side. She had grunted in pain as she toppled over, her sword slipping from her grasp and rolling a few feet away.

Catra had leaped after her, vaulting off a branch to try to dig her claws into her back, but for once in her stupid life, she had been quicker, her fingers curling around the hilt of her sword and sending one, and then two, blasts of magic her way. 

She had ducked under the first blast, she wasn’t an _amateur_ , but the second one caught her by surprise. She had cried out as the searing pain hit her, sending her stumbling.

Now Adora looks stricken. “You were supposed to duck. You’re faster than that, I didn’t think it would —“

She grins. “You never think, do you? That’s always been your problem.”

“I’m sorry,” Her hand goes to join Catra’s, pressing into the wound. She grunts in pain. “Shit, shit,” Her other hand moves from her back to curl around her hip as she holds her like she’s something delicate, something fragile. It makes Catra sick with something she refuses to name.

She squirms under her grip. “Let me try something,” Adora says, getting up and picking up her sword as Catra bleeds to death, _thank you very much_.

She closes her eyes, raising the sword above her head, and a blazing golden glow begins to envelop her. The sword follows, a blue glow shining from the stone in the middle of it — _a Runestone_ , Entrapta would have corrected excitedly, if she were here — as it raises higher and higher above her head.

 _She’s trying to help her,_ she realizes. She pictures this glow flowing over her too, the tendrils tightening around her like a chokehold, and panic rises in her chest. 

She has no idea what she could be doing but she doesn’t want it anywhere _near_ her; she just wants to run, far and fast, or maybe just let this wound do what it wishes to her. For once, she has no desire to get back up, to keep fighting. There’s just this, this feeling of permanence, of an end and she has no idea why, but it’s the most freeing thing she has ever gotten her hands on.

This time, as Catra presses into the wound, she unsheathes her claws, curling them deeper and deeper into the burn, crying out as she does. That glow dissipates in a second, flickering out as the sword clatters to the ground. Adora lurches forward, catching Catra by surprise as she gasps in pain. She feels a hand grip her wrist. “Catra, stop!” She presses in again. “Please. Just let me heal you.”

“I don’t need you to heal me.”

She makes a desperate noise at the back of her throat. “You’ll die if I don’t!”

“Like you care,” She tries to laugh but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper that she immediately tries to stifle. “I wouldn’t be like this if it weren’t for you.”

Another flash, a memory, claws its way through her. There’s a ship, and then a warning and a portal, and then —

(Catra remembers. It’s Adora, it is _always_ Adora, taking everything from her, snatching everything she’s ever wanted before she gets the opportunity to sink her teeth in it.

Before the thought used to fill her with rage, with resentment. Now there’s just nothing. She wants her to run her through with her sword; she wants her to hold her in her arms and never let go. 

Catra _wants_ her to let her go, finally, so this can just end as it should — she’s always thought it’d go this way, her and Adora, She-Ra, being the two who end it all.

 _It’s always Adora,_ Catra thinks wryly. What a fucking joke.)

“I’m sorry,” She says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” And that’s such bullshit, Catra thinks, coming from the person who blasted her with so much magic that there’s now a _hole_ in her stomach, “Please, just let me heal you. Let me fix this.”

“Or what,” She grits out. “I don’t know why you’re even asking. We both know you’re going to do it anyway.”

She picks up the sword again, her eyes sliding shut. That same blue glow shines from the sword, wrapping her in gold yet again, before it dies out, sputtering out like a machine.

Adora growls in frustration, angrily lodging the sword into the trunk of a tree. “Why won’t you just let me fucking help you?” She asks. 

“What does it matter,” Catra spits out. She’s weak and it hurts to speak, _everything_ in her aches and she just wants it to stop, “You got what you wanted. You don’t need to save me.”

“Catra,” Her voice breaks into a sob and Catra nearly scowls. She‘s always been a bit too willing to sacrifice herself for anything soft, anything living. She wonders if it’s a _She-Ra_ thing or just Adora, finally seeping through. “I can’t lose you again. I just can’t.”

“You’ll live,” The blood soaks her hand now, dripping down her wrist and staining the sleeve of her bodysuit. This time she doesn’t even try to stifle the whimper that leaves her lips. She doesn’t have the strength.

“Please,” Adora — Catra will give herself this one last lie, she can pretend that it’s her and not _She-Ra_ who’s holding her like this, who is so desperate to save her not out of some egotistical sense of duty, but because it’s _Catra_ and she can’t bear to lose her — holds her tighter. “I need you.”

“No, you don’t,” She says and she feels her hand shake against her stomach. “You never have.”

━━━━━

_v._

Catra always finds herself back back with that lever.

It feels the same every time. The pain in her chest, the way her breath wheezes out of her, the cool metal of the lever against her palm. Even after she pulls it, she can feel the aftermath, the ripple effects on her hands, on her arms, wrapping around her torso.

She can’t escape from it. It makes her want to pull that lever, again and again and again.

She just wants a world where she doesn’t have this. Some crazed part of her just wants to be free, from all of it; she wants to exist in a place where this doesn’t happen to her, where it _can’t_ happen.

Catra is so fucking tired of this happening to her.

She can feel the pain everywhere too, in every life. It follows her like a shadow, and she can’t escape it no matter what she does. She claws at herself, until her bodysuit is drenched with red and nothing but red, but that pain, that ache is still there. She can’t get rid of it.

Sometimes, Catra thinks, sometimes she wonders if any of this is even real, if she’s just deluding herself into a pipe dream so that she has something to hold on to, something to cling to; it wouldn’t be the first time.

 _What if none of this is real,_ she thinks. Then, the more terrifying thought comes:

_What if all of them are?_

━━━━━

Catra had never liked memorials.

It always felt like they were making death into a spectacle, into something to celebrate. She’s always hated that, making her own sorrow into something that belonged to someone else, something to be strutted and walked around like some trophy.

They’re the same too, never mourning, never anguished, but _pitying_. People looked at you with such a look that it could strike you down if you let it. It’s always that same mix of pity and reverence. _Look at what they’ve lost,_ they would say, _Look at how noble, how fucking heroic, it was of her._

If she hears another person talk about Adora as heroic, as _fearless_ , rather than the wreck of a girl who arranged for her own murder, then she’s going to lose it.

The statue is tacky too, she decides. Gleaming and glistening in the moonlight, the gold of the armor blinding her. It’s off, it doesn’t look right.

Then again, it’s hard to memorialize Adora in anything but the real thing. It doesn’t compare. It can’t.

She’s silent even as she hears Bow walk towards her. He doesn’t even try to be quiet, which she appreciates. They both know it wouldn’t matter.

“It’s shit,” Catra says in lieu of a greeting. “Who came up with it?”

He shrugs, looking at the statue before glancing back at her. “I think it was someone from Erelandia. As a, you know, thank you,” Catra gives him a look, _Adora didn’t do that for a thank you,_ and Bow gives her one in return, sighing, _I know_. It should be terrifying, she thinks, that she can read him so well, so soon. “They got her jaw wrong,” He says.

Catra snorts. “It looks like one of Entrapta’s drills got to it.”

“Or her blowtorch,” He smiles at her, almost a little conspiratorially. “If you tilt your head a little, it could definitely be Entrapta’s blowtorch.”

A ghost of a smile spreads across her face, and it goes quiet again. There’s nothing but the hushed whispers from the party behind them, an odd amalgam of mourning and commemoration enveloping the silence.

Catra sinks a fang into her lip, digging her claws deep up and down her arm. It’s not hard enough to draw blood but Bow notices anyway, sending a pitying look her way.

Except, no, that’s not it. Not pity, she thinks, but concern. She’s starting to realize that there’s a difference between them, a different kind of worry. It’s still taking some getting used to.

“Here,” Bow says. Catra raises a brow at him and his expression turns somber. “She wanted to give you this,” He holds out his hand, passing her a letter.

It’s wrinkled and faded, a splat of purple and blue staining the crisp white of the letter. Catra takes it, and Bow just smiles at her, his smile laced with a kind of sorrow that’s at odds with the optimism she’s spent the last three years trying to crush.

“She wanted to give it to you after Prime but then she —” He stops himself and Catra doesn’t have to ask what he meant. _But then she died._

She nods, molding herself into a statue of nonchalance, acting as if those very words don’t send her stumbling. “Right,” She says. “Uh, thanks.” 

She doesn’t know what else to say to that. She doesn’t think she belongs here, in this place, mourning someone who meant so much to her that she doesn’t even have enough words to describe.

She doesn’t _fit_ , Catra thinks. And that urge to flee, to run fast and far away where no one will ever be able to touch her again, pulls at her.

She wants to run — and if it were anyone else standing next to her, she would; but there is something about Bow that demands her full attention, that makes her stop. There’s something about him that always demands her honesty, that pulls it out of her like a strangled string; it’s the set of his eyes, the way he cares and worries, firm but without assuming.

She remembers the nights on the ship, the way Bow had made room for her without hesitation, the way he had handed her that new bodysuit Entrapta had made her with nothing but a teasing smile. He had welcomed her, not with open arms or a suffocating smile, but with the pointed jab, the soft taunt, she’s always so used to.

She could leave — run, like she always does, because that’s all she’s good for — and he wouldn’t even bat an eye. He’d let her, she realizes. That undoes something within her; it makes her want to be brave.

“Are you going to stay?” Bow asks.

“I don’t know,” She curls the letter in her hand, just barely making out the _Dear Catra,_ in Adora’s scrawl. “You even want me here?”

“Of course we do,” He says. “You know, you were always so quiet when we were on the ship, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so good at sneaking up on people. We could really use that for when we try to steal some food later.”

That gets a smirk out of her. It’s hollow and makes her chest feel like it’s breaking apart, but it’s better than the emptiness she’s shaped her face into for the last couple of hours. “It’s not stealing when you’re dating the literal Queen.”

“I mean, if we’re not going to get caught we might as well, right?”

Catra laughs at that, a little bit strangled. _Adora should be here_ , she thinks. It’s the same thought that’s forced its way through her head for weeks now _._ She clutches at the letter tighter, hearing it crush in her hand and Bow puts his hand over hers. Her claws immediately sheathe.

“If you need anything, you know where to find us,” He says, and she appreciates that he doesn’t add an _I’m sorry_ into the words. She’s so sick of hearing them wherever she goes.

“Sure,” She says, nodding to the lute in his other hand, “I’ll just follow the screeching. Where’d you even find that thing anyway? Someone give away a torture device they didn’t need anymore?” Catra smirks and Bow smiles, more genuine this time.

“Something like that,” He grins. “If I ever need to make Swift Wind’s ears bleed, you’ll be the first one I’ll call.”

He gives her hand one last squeeze, as he walks away and Catra bites down on the _Thanks, Bow_ that rests on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she opens the letter.

She traces her shaking fingers over the creases of the paper, smoothening it out in a way that makes her feel sick, like she’s on the verge of collapse.

She makes sure she’s careful with it, because this is it, this is all she has left of her. This and some broken pin that Glimmer had given to her days ago. She would have given her whole life to Adora, she _had_ , and now all she has is this, this letter, this pin, and it makes her want to hurl.

It’s longer than what she expected, then again, she isn’t sure _what_ she expected. She had never imagined that Adora wrote her anything during the war; she never imagined that she paid her any mind other than the searing anger she was so sure she felt.

It’s only when she reaches the words _I will always miss you_ and _Because those break my heart_ that she crumbles. The letter tears itself in her hands as her knees dig into the ground, as her hand covers her mouth and she lets out a cry.

 _I miss your smile, I miss the gleam in your eye when you would beat me in a race during training,_ it repeats in her mind as she claws into herself. Every other word haunts her, like a ghost, like a revenant. That’s all she’s felt like these past few weeks. It’s been so long since Catra’s felt like an actual person.

She’s shaking with it, dry heaving on the ground, in front of that stupid fucking statue that she just wants to tear down with her own two hands — because it’s not _Adora_ ; it’s She-Ra and Catra just wants to something to remember her by, something to cling to, and she can’t because she has nothing. Adora is gone and no one seems to fucking care.

There’s a tug at the back of her mind, like nothing Catra has ever felt before. Something brushes against the back of her legs, and then her arms, before placing itself in the crook of her neck. She’s too far gone to even care, to even notice as they lick her cheek and nuzzle her jaw, the whisper of _It’s okay_ and _You’re not alone_ reverberating in her mind.

She should’ve done it, Catra thinks, as the sobs wrack her body, as her claws dig into anything open, anything bleeding, until they pin her claws away from where it can hurt her.

She should’ve done it.

She should’ve run when she had the chance.

━━━━━

_vi._

Catra slips into Adora’s room quietly, careful not to let her claws tap too loudly on the floor.

Adora’s always been an infuriatingly light sleeper; she can’t even remember the amount of times she’s almost gotten a fist to the face when waking up next to her.

She sits down, her knees resting next to her hips as she watches the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her hands are balled into fists, curled inwards as if trying to protect herself. Catra lets herself trail a finger along her jawline, feeling the way it’s cold to the touch, almost icy.

She was always like that, Catra remembers. She was like a furnace that Adora never hesitated to bury herself in, to wrap her arms around, while Adora was the complete opposite — there was always a chill whenever they slept together, no matter how many blankets she stole, no matter how tightly she wrapped herself around Catra, her arms clinging to her waist like a vice, she could never get warm.

 _How are you so cold,_ Catra asked. Adora’s feet pressed against her ankles, her calves, and Catra can feel the cold through the fabric of her bodysuit and she yelped. Adora slapped a hand over her mouth.

 _Shh,_ She whispered, rolling her eyes when Catra licked her palm. _That stopped working when we were seven, you know,_ This time she bites her, and Adora retracted her hand with a scowl. _Did you just bite me?_

 _You started it,_ Catra argued.

_You bit me. You actually bit me. You are such a brat._

_Well, maybe,_ Catra said, her annoyance completely for show, _You should get your cold feet off of me._

_It’s freezing!_

_And why is that my problem?_

Adora pressed her feet against the slits of her bodysuit. _It is if you don’t want me to use you as a furnace._

_I hate you so much right now._

_Uh-huh,_ Adora had grinned, _Sure you do._

She tries to commit this to memory, the curve of her smile, the way her nose had wrinkled in annoyance, fond but no less exasperated.

She’s trying to make herself into an evocation, of herself, of Adora, of all the things they have done for each other. She doesn’t know why — _You do,_ a voice that belongs to her but doesn’t says in her head; Catra ignores it — but she is desperate to burn this into her memory. For some reason, she doesn’t want to forget.

“Adora,” Catra says, giving her cheek a light flick. “ _Adora_.”

Her face twitches, her hands unclenching as her eyes open. Adora’s eyes widen and her lips press together into a frown, into a scowl just like when she — no, not like anything, because Adora has never looked at her like that, not really; it’s always a facade, always playful, she never _means_ it. 

There’s a memory that jolts in her mind, and then another, and then _another_ , that she takes into her hands and crushes.

Catra’s eyes narrow, her tail flicking back and forth in annoyance and she sneers before her expression smoothes out. _Don’t do this,_ she thinks, _Don’t ruin this._

Her hands curl into fists again as she yelps, vaulting herself off the pillows, and Catra wraps her hands around her wrists to push her back down. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” She says, gritting her teeth as she just kicks from under her. “Adora,” And she stops at this, letting out a gasp at the iron grip Catra has her in.

Adora’s brows furrow, like it always does when she feels like she’s out of her depth, out of control. Her grip loosens, only a little, and Catra’s lips twitch up into a smile, and she feels herself soften. “Since when do you sleep in?” She laughs.

She frowns, her eyes scanning the room. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

“Uh, you’re in your room,” Catra says. She leans against her bed, propping her feet up. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I was just having a weird dream,” Adora rubs at her head, smoothening down her ponytail. “There was something I needed to fix.”

“Of course _you_ dream about work,” Catra laughs. “There’s nothing to fix, Adora.” She can’t explain it but her words cause something bitter and panicked and abandoned to curl deep in her chest. She doesn’t want to hear that, she doesn’t want her to _fix_ anything. She just wants them to stay here, forever.

Catra just wants them to stay in this world where nothing can ever get to them and they can always choose each other, every time, without question.

She needs them to. She will make _sure_ they will, with everything she’s got.

Catra smiles at her, and it’s sharp like a promise. “Everything’s perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/auberigines) and [tumblr](https://auberigines.tumblr.com)


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